


Between Shadows

by maigloeckchen



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Lietbel, Vignette, lietbela - Freeform, litbel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 16:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16916460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maigloeckchen/pseuds/maigloeckchen
Summary: Short LietBela thing





	Between Shadows

i. spring

 

                Twilight has wrapped its gentle arm around the world, recoloring Natalya’s room with dusky blues and grays; Tolys can barely make out more than the basic shape of her body, her dress pushed down to expose her shoulders, her hair turned silver in the near-darkness. He can hear her moving across the bed toward him, though, her skirt rustling against the sheets as she reaches out and lightly moves her fingertips down his bare chest, from his shoulder to his waist, before she climbs onto his lap to kiss him again.

                Tolys lets her run her tongue against his lips before he pulls away and pushes her dress down further, nearly exposing her breasts; he traces the curve of her neck and her collarbone with his mouth, his hand running slowly down her back and over her hips before resting on her thigh. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes in pleasure, her lips parted slightly as he works on leaving a bruise where her collarbone meets her shoulder.

                He moves away again and she presses herself against him, missing the warmth of his kisses. “Don’t stop now,” she mutters, and, one arm wrapped around her waist and the other around her shoulder, he pulls her closer and buries his face in the crook of her neck.

                “I won’t,” he whispers, and she shivers at the feeling of his warm breath against her skin as he moves his arm down her back so he’s touching her hips with both hands.

                “Do you want me to take my dress off?” Nata asks, holding him close.

                “If you want to.”

                She hesitates but stays where she is, pushing her waist against his. They have all night, after all; there’s no harm in taking things slowly.

                Tolys feels his face grow hot, and he tries to focus on Natalya. It isn’t hard to do; her cool skin, so soft and smooth beneath his lips, smells intoxicatingly of some strange flower he can’t name. He reaches up to kiss her lips, letting her tangle her fingers in his hair as she pushes her tongue into his mouth. He’s entirely absorbed in her; she’s all there is.

                Her room is dark now, but that doesn’t matter. He knows where she is, and she knows where he is, and that’s all that matters. As long as they can find each other, everything will be alright.

                Nata gently pushes him onto his back, and he smiles, closing his eyes as she bends over to kiss his neck, gently at first, but it doesn’t take long for her to start using her teeth. Tolys can’t help grinning even more at that.

 

                The bathroom is still full of steam from the shower; the overhead light casts a sickly yellow glow on everything, but Nata manages to still be beautiful. She’s standing at the sink, brushing her hair, wearing only her underwear and one of Tolys’s button up shirts. It’s large enough on her to go more than halfway down her thighs, but it clings to her still-wet skin in just the right places. The back of it is completely soaked from her hair.

                Tolys—wearing old sweat pants and an undershirt—steps forward to help her; she surrenders the brush to him, and he slowly starts to work out the tangles in her hair.

                “How’re you better at this than me?” she asks.

                “You’ve got to start at the bottom and work your way up,” he says simply. “Don’t forget I have long hair, too.”

                She snorts. “Yeah, and you’re really well known for taking care of it.”

                “I brush my hair!”

                “Mhm.” The two lapse into silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. When he’s done with her hair, she holds her hand out. “Your turn,” she says simply, and he places the brush in her hand. She turns and frowns up at him. “You’re going to have to sit on the floor.”

                “Don’t you think that’s a bit much?” he asks teasingly, but he obeys and she kneels behind him.

                “It’s not my fault you’re a fucking tree,” she replies. He laughs at that and lets her brush his hair uninterrupted.

 

ii. summer

 

                They’re sitting on the beach, watching the sunset. The Baltic reflects the brilliant reds and oranges across its rippling surface, concealing its dark depths.

Nata leans into his side, and he wraps his arm around her shoulder. There’s a faint breeze coming in from the sea, but it’s only just strong enough to stir their hair, and the waves might as well belong to a lake, small as they are. The sticky heat of the day hangs heavy around them, but neither of them move. Neither of them speak. Tolys rubs his thumb on Nata’s bare arm. They could be any couple, really. There’s nothing odd about them at first glance.

                He wonders how many times he’s been to this beach. Far longer even than he’s known Nata.

                If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t remember how he met her. She’s been a part of his life for so long now—one of its few constants—that he wonders if there ever _was_ a time when she wasn’t there.

                He kisses the top of her head; her hair is stained pale gold in the glow of the sun. She plays absentmindedly with the amber necklace around her neck. Neither of them remember when Tolys gave it to her, they’d had a conversation about it earlier. The beads catch the dying light and send patterns of its reflections dancing across Nata’s hands. _J_ _ū_ _rat_ _ė’s tears._ He remembers when he first told her that story; they had been children—though decades old—and the world had been very different. Amber tears had not seemed far-fetched, then, when neither of them had known what lay beyond the sea. The world had seemed much larger, then, and far darker. Monsters used to lurk in the dark, but now their memory has washed away like footprints in the sand.

                The moon is visible, pale against the sky as it fades from orange to deep blue. Natallja shifts, moving away from Tolys only to lie on her side with her head in his lap. He brushes her hair behind her ear and continues following that same path with his fingertips again and again for several minutes.

                Their shadows, stained bruise-purple, stretch out behind them; they grow longer and longer until the first stars appear and they are swallowed up by the night.

 

iii. autumn

 

                Tolys has never had much luck growing anything but an herb garden; anything else just becomes too wild and out of control. He and Natallja are hanging up some of those herbs to dry now, anywhere in his house where there’s room. Rain streaks down the window behind the sink, its quiet drumming peaceful background noise.

                “Your house is going to smell like rosemary for _years_ ,” she’d told him when she saw the scale of the herb garden. “Haven’t you ever heard of moderation?”

                His house doesn’t smell at all like rosemary—at least, not yet; on the stove, cider is simmering, and its smells are dominant, warm, inviting, though Tolys suspects it’s the main reason the window is beginning to fog up. Nata scours the cabinets above it, revealing jar after jar of honey. She raises an eyebrow and he shrugs. “It’s not like it ever goes _bad_.”

                “True, I guess,” she replies, stepping off the chair she’d had to stand on, a small jar of star anise in hand. It’s Tolys’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You _never_ remember to put the anise in,” is her response to his unasked question as she drops several of the whole fruits in the pot and stirs it.

                “You can put this back,” she says, handing him the jar. He rolls his eyes but does so, before returning the chair to the table in the corner where it belongs. Nata promptly sits on the table, swinging her legs back and forth; Tolys scowls at her but she doesn’t move, and he turns his attention to tying the last bundle of sage. “What’s for dinner?” she asks.

                “I haven’t decided yet.”

                “Well, as long as it’s not soup. I’ve had nothing but soup for the past _week_.”

                “That’s hardly my fault!” Tolys protests.

                “And it’s hardly _my_ fault that Vanya and Katyusha are worse at understanding moderation than you! _Every_ time we get together, _I’m_ the one who gets all the leftovers. It’s like they don’t think I can cook for myself or something.”

                Tolys can’t help laughing a bit at that. Nata is a terrible cook, and she knows it.

                “Alright, then, no soup for dinner.” He wonders what else they should have but is distracted by Nata sliding off the table and finding two mugs; she fills them both with the cider and gives one to Tolys before returning to her perch on the table. He doesn’t think the star anise had enough time to really steep, but he’s not going to tell Nata that. The cider probably tastes fine without it, though it’s still too hot to drink. He turns around, leaning against the counter by the sink, mentally going through the contents of his fridge and pantry as he waits for the mug cupped in his hands to cool.

 

iv. winter

 

                The only light in the small living room is from Nata’s very outdated TV—not that either of them are watching it. They’re curled up together on her couch, half-asleep, listening to the wind shriek and howl, at times violently enough to shake the house.

                The room, like the rest of the house, is full of miscellaneous tchotchkes, each stranger than the last, though they’re familiar enough to Tolys by now. Some of them are almost as old as they are. The rest of the shelves and side tables are occupied by books and nearly every kind of plant even remotely small enough to be grown indoors. The windowsill has a line of small cacti on it; there are more elsewhere, in rooms that get more sunlight. These are far newer, but Nata can’t seem to get enough of them or their succulent cousins. Most of the other plants serve some purpose—Tolys may not know all of them, but Nata does—but to his knowledge the only succulent with medical value is aloe vera; maybe they serve some magical purpose he doesn’t know, or maybe they’re just there for decoration. He’s never asked.

                Nata pulls out her phone, adjusting herself so she’s not quite on her side.

                “Would you like me to move?” Tolys asks softly.

                “No, no, you’re fine,” she says, settling on a position at last, and they lapse back into silence.

                Tolys has no idea what’s going on in the movie they put in, so he turns his attention to Nata’s phone just long enough to see that her Pinterest feed consists almost entirely of terrarium ideas.

                “Don’t you have enough plants?”

                “Christmas presents.”

                “Mm.”

                The phone doesn’t seem to be able to hold her attention, and it returns to her pocket. “What movie even is this?”

                “You’re the one who put it in, aren’t you?” He genuinely can’t remember.

                She frowns, adjusting herself once more so she’s lying on her back, head in Tolys’s lap.

                “My leg’s starting to fall asleep.”

                “Not my problem,” she says, but she sits up so he can adjust his legs before laying down again.

                Tolys leans back, closing his eyes as he absentmindedly plays with a strand of Nata’s hair.

                In another life, the two of them are married and have a family. Tolys wonders what their children would look like; it’s pointless speculation, of course, they can’t have children, but still, he wonders. He wonders, too, what century this other life is in; what house they have; what pets; what occupations.

                His thoughts are interrupted by Natalya grabbing his hand and pulling it to her lips. “It’s _cold_ ,” she murmurs, playing with bending his fingers; he can’t help wincing, and she frowns up at him.

                “Is it your arthritis?”

                He nods, and her frown deepens as she kisses his knuckles again. “Your scars don’t hurt, do they?”

                “No,” he lies; she clearly doesn’t believe him, because she stands up abruptly.

                “What are you doing?”

                “I have a heating pad up in my room.”

                “Nata, I’m fine— “

                “You’re not fine unless I say you’re fine,” she says, before vanishing. Tolys sighs, making and unmaking a fist. He might have all of his fingers, but decades of frostbite have not been kind to him.

                Nata returns, forcing him to lean forward so she can place the heating pad behind him before plugging it in and vanishing again before he can say anything. This time when she returns, she has a cup of tea, which she shoves into Tolys’s hands. He smells it and wrinkles his nose; he doesn’t know what’s in it, but it’s definitely not tea leaves.

                “It’ll help,” Nata says, curling up to his side.

                “Nata, you don’t have to— “

                “Oh, yes, I do. Besides, you’d do the same for me, so shut up and drink your damn tea.”

                Tolys sighs and obeys, grimacing at the absolutely awful not-tea. Somehow, it’s not hot enough to burn his tongue, though he sort of wishes it was, because that would help the taste.

                “Honestly, it’s not _that_ bad,” Nata says, rolling her eyes.

                “Yes, it is; here, try,” he says, playfully trying to give her the cup.

                “ _Absolutely not_ ,” she says, jumping up; Tolys laughs, and she hits his head with a pillow. He sets the cup on the nearest side table and jumps up, grabbing her around the waist before she can get out of the way. Laughing, the two fall back onto the couch, Nata lying on her back, Tolys on top of her. He leans down to kiss her, but she holds a finger to his lips, keeping him back. Smirking, she says, “You don’t get to kiss me until you drink your tea.”

                “What! That’s not fair!”

                Her smirk only grows more devious, and he exaggerates a sigh, sitting up and forcing himself to down the tea. He shows her the empty cup, and she nods approvingly, setting it on the coffee table, before climbing onto his lap and kissing him.


End file.
